HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 3: FIRST PUNISHMENT

Kneel.”

The word hung in the penthouse air like a blade.

Elias stared at Damien’s shoes. Black. Polished. Expensive enough to feed him for a month back in the alley. His knees shook.

He didn’t move.

Damien didn’t repeat himself. He just walked past Elias and into the living room. Glass walls showed Nairobi below like a circuit board of lights. He poured himself whiskey. The sound of ice was loud in the silence.

Elias was still standing. Frozen. Ashamed.

“Elias,” Damien said without turning. “Rule two. You don’t speak unless I ask you a question. Rule three. You call me Sir. Rule one. Obedience.”

“I’m sorry,” Elias whispered. “I… I don’t know how—”

Damien set the glass down. Slow. Deliberate. He turned around.

Grey eyes hit Elias like a physical weight. Cold. Assessing. Like he was inventory in a warehouse Damien owned. Which he did now. For 2.4 million shillings.

“On your knees. Now.”

Elias’s legs gave out. The marble floor was freezing. It bit through his soaked trousers. He kept his eyes on the floor like he was told. Like a good boy.

Good boy. Damien had said that in the car. The words echoed.

Damien walked toward him. Each step measured. He stopped inches from Elias’s face. Elias could smell the whiskey. Smell power.

“Tell me your name,” Damien said.

Elias swallowed. “Elias.”

“Louder.”

“Elias.”

“Tell me who you belong to.”

Elias’s throat closed. The contract was in Damien’s jacket upstairs. Signed in ink. 1 year. His signature bled into the paper like a wound.

“You,” he whispered. “I belong to you.”

“Wrong answer.” Damien crouched down so they were eye level. His thumb lifted Elias’s chin. Forced him to meet those grey eyes. “Try again. And this time, use the right word.”

Elias’s face burned. But he had nowhere else to go. No house. No bed. Just this floor and this man.

“Sir,” he choked out. “I belong to you, Sir.”

Damien smiled. Not kind. Just satisfied.

“Good boy.” He said it softly. “That’s it.”

He stood back up. Walked to the window. Hands in pockets.

“You sold everything to pay 2.4 million,” Damien said casually. “The house. The watch. The furniture. Still not enough.” He turned back. “You have nothing, Elias. Nothing except me now.”

Elias nodded. Eyes still on the floor.

Damien clicked his tongue. “Eyes up.”

Elias obeyed. Slowly. Damien was backlit by the city. A shadow in a suit.

“First punishment,” Damien said. “For hesitating.”

Elias’s stomach dropped. “Please—”

“No speaking unless asked.” Damien’s voice sharpened. “You broke rule two already.”

He walked to a glass cabinet. Opened it. Inside: a thin leather belt. Elias’s breath caught.

Damien held it up. Then let it drop onto the coffee table.

“Stand up,” Damien ordered.

Elias stood. Knees wobbling.

“Shirt off.”

Elias’s fingers fumbled at the buttons. He pulled it over his head. Dropped it on the floor. His chest was thin. Ribs visible.

Damien circled him. Slow. His gaze burned.

“Turn around.”

Elias turned. Back to Damien. Exposed. He could feel Damien’s eyes on his spine.

“You’re mine now,” Damien said behind him. Voice low in his ear. “Every inch of you. Every rule broken has a price.”

Elias squeezed his eyes shut. He’d signed the paper. He knew this was coming.

The belt lifted.

“Ten,” Damien said. “Count them. Out loud. With ‘Sir’ at the end.”

The first strike landed. Sharp. Hot. It stole his breath.

“One… Sir,” he gasped.

The second hit lower. He bit his lip.

“Two… Sir.”

“Three… Sir,” he cried out, voice shaking.

“Four… Sir.”

“Five… Sir.” By five he was shaking.

“Six… Sir.”

“Seven… Sir.” His knees were weak.

“Eight… Sir.” Tears fell now, hot and silent.

“Nine… Sir.”

The tenth strike landed hardest. He almost collapsed.

“Ten… Sir.”

Silence. Then Damien set the belt down.

His palm flattened against Elias’s burning back. Possessive.

“Look at me,” Damien commanded.

Elias turned, slow, tears on his face.

Damien’s thumb brushed under Elias’s eye. Caught a tear.

“You cried,” Damien murmured. “But you obeyed. That’s interesting.”

He leaned down. His lips brushed Elias’s forehead. A brand.

“Rule four,” Damien whispered. “When I mark you, you thank me. Understand?”

Elias’s voice was broken. “Thank… thank you, Sir.”

“Good boy.” Damien pulled back. “Now pick up your shirt. Go to the guest room. First door on the left. No dinner. You’ll earn it tomorrow.”

Elias nodded. Bent down. Picked up the torn shirt. His back stung.

At the doorway he paused.

“Sir?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Will you… will you kill me when the year is over?”

Damien didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice dropped low, cold, possessive.

“No, Elias Wanjiku.” *Damien Cross* stepped closer, grey eyes burning. “I don’t waste investments. I collect returns.”

Elias wanjiku walked into the first room. Closed the door. Slid down to the floor. The marble was cold. But not as cold as the alley.

He pressed his forehead to his knees. Saint his mother called him. Now he was just property.

Property for Damien Cross.

And somewhere in the penthouse, Damien Cross poured another glass of whiskey. Listening to the silence. Listening to his investment breathe .